


Of Innocence Lost, The Chronicles

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-19
Updated: 2005-12-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 14:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12411912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: A fallen angel, Lily Evans realizes she is in too deep and needs to get out. A story about hope, faith, religion, goodbyes, trust, patience, betrayal, honesty, pain, friendship, revenge, love, loss and, perhaps most importantly, the ability to believe that, in the end, it would have all been worth it.





	Of Innocence Lost, The Chronicles

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

  
Author's notes: 1  


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** Of Innocence Lost, The Chronicles  **

**Prologue**

...   
_Chapter Song: "Do I Have To Cry For You" - Nick Carter_  
... 

I have never believed in God, and how this chapter of my life began was no different. It is incredibly difficult to believe in someone like God when your entire life has been ripped from your grasp, and, as much as you'd like to cling to it, praying that it offers even a false sense of security, you are unprepared for this moment, and it all flies out from under you, knocking you onto your back, drawing all the air from your lungs, and tearing your heart out of your chest. 

I have always been different, and I have always known it, the people around me always knew it. In my grammar school in Surrey, England, I was in the gifted class. My parents took great pride in my obvious brilliance, and whenever there was a school outing, I could hear them boasting to other parents who had offered to chaperone that the cute, brilliant redheaded girl was theirs. I loved the pride that I got from my parents, I loved the love that I was on the receiving end of, and I worshipped the attention and acknowledgment that I received, oblivious to the resentment towards me that was building up in my older sister. 

I am sure you have heard of those moments that people speak of, the moments where your entire life changes in one moment. My life altering moment came at the young, impressionable age of fourteen. The kind of moment that tore my breath from me, stopped my blood in my veins, and chilled me to the very bone. 

At the age of fourteen, my life was the epitome of perfection. Perhaps referring to my life as perfection seems like a hyperbole to most, but to me, even that description did it absolutely no justice. 

My parents were completely and utterly in love, so in love, in fact, that it would make me queasy just to simply watch their occasional exchange, an exchange so intimate, that I would always feel guilty afterwards for witnessing. It was the simplest of things, my father gently brushing his hand down my mother's arm as they passed each other, the fragile kiss he would lay on her temple when he came home from work. Wonderfully underrated, and so reassuring and beautiful to anyone who had the privilege of living in such a warm household. 

Every morning, when I awoke to the sunrise, I would remind myself that it was real, that it was not just a dream that lasted for years and years. The sunrise always brought the past to the front of my mind, and I would spend ten minutes, each morning, reliving every moment that I had ever lived, contemplating how things could have gone differently, and then being glad that they did not. That was me, always the optimistic, 'everything happens for a reason' girl that my boyfriend, Amos Diggory, had fallen in love with. I was happy, so completely, utterly content with life that I would thank whatever heavenly body I could think of that my life was the way it was. 

Then the happiness stopped. My silver balloon of love, hope, faith, protection, selflessness, happiness and completeness popped. A dark cloud hung over my head and, for the first time for as long as I could remember, I failed to see the silver lining. My optimistic, happy-go-lucky self exchanged itself with a dark, unhappy, distant character that felt better to wrap herself in complete lies and loneliness. My outlook on life became one of a pessimist, my personality bland, cold and distant. My wit was sarcastic, hurtful and sharp. I was cutting people left and right. 

My parents had been taken from my by a seventeen year old boy who had decided he hadn't had too much to drink at a party, and was completely sober and able to drive himself home. Everything changed. The entire world, as I knew it, had stopped turning, and it seemed as though we were frozen in time, in the middle of a hellish nightmare we could not escape from. For the first time, a bubble of anger rose up inside of me, and words I'd never known I knew spilled from my mouth; threats, swears, damnations and deadly promises were the only things I knew the moment that elderly police officer rang our doorbell at three o'clock in the morning, telling Petunia that she and I were to come to the station with him. 

While I sat in that police station, I demanded that the seventeen year old boy be alive and well, so that he could forever live with the torment of knowing that he had taken both parents from a sixteen year old girl and her younger sister. I wished that he would forever suffer for the pain and damage he had caused Petunia and I in just a split second, where is 'good judgment' failed him. I crossed my fingers, closed my eyes and swore that I would avenge the death of these two beautiful people. I tucked my legs up underneath me, folded my arms over my knees, laid my forehead on the back of my hands and sobbed until my normally bright green eyes looked black and demonic. 

Petunia came out of the questioning room where she had been with the same officer who had come to get us, and a younger, female officer, who suggested that I stay out of the room while Petunia was given the details. I hated that officer for keeping my parents from me, and I hated Petunia for knowing precisely what had happened when all I knew was that my parents were dead because a stupid teenage boy was too irresponsible to pick up a phone and call a cab instead of driving himself home. 

Shortly after the death of my parents, I was forced back into the cold, cruel arms of Hogwarts, back to the place that made my sister loathe me, back to the place that made me so different from everyone else. Back to the place where people assumed and expected, but never allowed. Back to my new definition of what hell must be like. 

Petunia hadn't wasted any time in showing her dislike and loathing for me. She continuously acted as though I left a bad taste in her mouth, and she certainly was not sad to see me call a taxi to take me to Platform 9 3/4; when she refused to drive me. I arrived at the Platform bitter, anger and resentful. My friends approached, innocent and content, and I lashed out at them without hesitation. I hurt them in ways I never thought possible, using just words. I intentionally chased people, hoping they would understand the meaning, the purpose, the need. 

I drove people away with my bitter, sarcastic sense of play. It didn't hurt me to see the pain in their eyes, or the tears before they turned their heads away, denying me the satisfaction of the knowledge that I had just succeeded in breaking a part of their spirit. I kept telling myself that I was better off without them, and if they were so quick to cry or back down at my words, then clearly they were never strong enough for my friendship, tolerance or peace in the first place. 

Then the addiction came along. When people stopped caring entirely, not even looking up when I would try to start a brawl with them, I turned to self-infliction. I would spend hours a day, locked inside the bathroom in my dormitory, a silver razor in my hand, drawing designs on my right wrist. The sight of the crimson sent my senses into overdrive as it trickled down my porcelain skin and onto the white-tiled bathroom floor. I don't know what the expression on my face was in those moments of weakness, but I can only assume that it was a sick, manic, morbid smile upon my face, a twisted malice in my eyes as I took out my anger towards everyone else on my horribly scarred wrist. 

I changed again; this time, I was a quiet wallflower, constantly trying to blend into the shadows on the stonewalls. Despite the numerous people that approached, all offering their condolences towards my situation, I did not change. I did not open up to anyone. I would brush them off with a blank stare and then continue walking, ignoring the few who continued calling my name. My only escape was those precious moments I kept to myself, alone in the bathroom, the now dulling razor lodged firmly in the skin of my wrist, my silent pleas for help escaping the attention of those around me. 

After the first month of this lifestyle, I stopped communicating with other people all together. I stopped raising my hand in class; I stopped making eye contact with people. I completely pushed myself into social isolation, and I was happy living that way. I spent more and more time writing in my journal; increasingly more time writing dark, depressing poetry about suicide and self-inflicted pain. I would lock myself up, completely ignoring the outside world and its happenings, which is probably why I was unaware of the sudden danger and intensity that had settled swiftly over Hogwarts, so fast that nobody had time to react or run. 

Lord Voldemort was on the rampage, killing everything and anything that dared try to stop his plan for dictatorship, his plan to rid the world of all muggles, Muggleborns and half-bloods. Anyone that did not have Pure Ancestry was in danger. And, surprise, surprise, the Slytherin's didn't seem indefinitely terrified of the idea that at any moment Voldemort could come crashing through the doors to the Great Hall and kill us all with some swift movement of his wand. His sole purpose was to hurt others, his destination: a modern hell. Yet, I stayed blissfully unaware of this overwhelming threat that began settling heavily on my fellow students shoulders as they prayed everyday that the Ministry owls containing death certificates of loved ones were not addressed to them. 

Taking a band of followers, anyone weak enough to accept the promises of power and ever-lasting loyalty, Voldemort began the killings. Children were killed, parents murdered in a fit of rage for protecting their spawns. The only safety zone was Hogwarts, and even that was threatened regularly. 

My classmates suddenly bursting into tears in the middle of the day no longer affected me, and I no longer hesitated, considering whether or not I should approach them and find out if they needed to talk, or simply a shoulder to cry on. If I saw someone sobbing in the hallways, I would walk past them, pretending I could not hear their pathetic, heart-wrenching mews of pain and torment. The majority of the students had not lost anyone to Voldemort as of yet, but it did not stop the fear from rising in our souls. The only good that ever came of Voldemort's threat was that his reign of terror was bringing the most unlikely people together, which is what my story is about. 

Despite what has already been written, what you have already been told, and what you have, most likely, come to presume about my story, it is not about recovering from the deaths of Charles and Hannah Evans, nor is it about my self-inflicted pain, or the pain that Voldemort was causing my schoolmates. This story is not about death, pain and torment inside, or outside, the walls of Hogwarts Academy for Witchcraft and Wizardry. This story portrays what was known then, as my future... now known as my past. The past. A past that people fear with every inch of their being, a past that nobody would want to return to, no matter their reasons. 

My story is about how a disaster can make one stand, but a tragedy brings a whole room to its feet. It is about how a terrible moment can bring the most unlikely of people together. It is about how, even in an era of darkness, many people can still find the light. It is about hope, faith, religion, goodbyes, trust, patience, betrayal, honesty, pain, friendship, revenge, love, loss and, perhaps most importantly, the ability to believe that, in the end, it would have all been worth it. 

My name is Lily Isabella Evans, and I stand here, unafraid, and prepared to take on the world. 

... 

**Author's Note:** Firstly, it must be stated that this story is post-HBP. Slightly revised from the original version that I posted, but not too much has changed. Read and review?

**Disclaimer:** The characters belong to J.K. Rowling, the song belongs to Nick Carter (as the artist) and the plot belongs to ChaoticBeauty. 


End file.
